Goodbye has lost all meaning
by Haley Hanson
Summary: Death is an occupational hazard. So is insomnia, exhaustion, periodic blackouts, fractures and breaks of everything imaginable...and yeah death- it's the biggie. A collection of one-shots in which Dick Grayson faces the indefinite perils of his career choice. ((Taking requests, maybe.))


**Blast** **Zone**

* * *

Heat prickled painfully across the exposed skin of neck, needle like fragments of stone grating against his cheek like a wad of sandpaper. It was then that Dick realized he'd miscalculated the blast zone, realized that he and Conner were nothing but sitting ducks in an ever expanding debris field. He knew there was about half a second before his world disappeared into darkness, half a second to save the one of the only friends he had left. Without hesitation Dick threw himself from the front seat of the S-cycle, coiling his kevlar plated body in an airbag like fashion around the weakened kryptonian that had been sitting behind him.

The impact is a blur of moments that only last a second, but feel like an eternity. Connor's weight slammed him like a freight train, but instead of the kryptonian's head smashing into the dash it's cushioned somewhat in Dick's chest and he's glad for it. But their momentum doesn't stop there, Dick's back arching violently as he was pitched to the right, Conner and Wolf flung like a rag-dolls to the left.

Dick landed on his side, jarring his right shoulder with an audible pop; head smashing into Sphere's metal with enough force to dent it. For just a moment the pain was overwhelming. Every ragged breath tasted of copper and the slightest twitch sent agony ricocheting through every nerve in his body. Then, like someone simply flicked off a light switch—the world vanished.

* * *

~I tried to put a break line here but it wouldn't save...~

"We need help, now! Flash, zeta beams…anything." Mal was nearly screaming into his com, trying to relay the panic building in his veins. One, one thousand. Two, one thousand. Three, one thousand. Clasped together his hands beat the steady rhythm into Nightwing's exposed chest, Connor having torn through the kevlar like paper. He watched the aforementioned kryptonian seal his lips over those of the still masked vigilante, forcing breath into his pliant body. They repeated the motions, while trying desperately to keep the man's various wounds from bleeding out.

Even when the bird shook violently to life, hacking and sputtering there was no relief. With his breath came a wheezing whistle and with his coughs came splatters of crimson. Terrified, Connor pulled his friend's shuddering body against his own. It couldn't end like this; surely fate wasn't that cruel…

* * *

Wally wasn't angry, he was livid. The cave was gone. Garth, Bart, Jaime—gone. Nightwing crossed the line, he was responsible for those kids and he'd basically thrown them into Kaldur's clutches. He wasn't going to let that stand, not after he'd given up everything so shit like this wouldn't happen. He found Zatana sifting through the rumble among a crowd of various heroes. They were all staring forlornly at the long cooled pile of ash and rock like it held answers. Wally knew where the real answers were, even if he had to pull them forcefully from Dick's throat.

"Where is he?"

Sorrowful blue eyes met his baleful scowl, and for a moment Wally regretted the tone he'd used. Zatana was just as much a pawn in Dick's game as he and Artemis were. Mount Justice had been her home too.

"Please Z," he tacked on halfheartedly, his eyes softening.

"D.C.—they took him to D.C."

* * *

No member of the public ever knew how large the Hall of Justice was, eighteen underground floors—including a med bay.

Recognized B-03, Kid Flash.

Wally's scowl only deepened with the knowledge that Dick still had him listed in the system despite his retirement; he wouldn't be marching a warpath if the man had taken him offline like he should have. He found Connor and Mal first, hovering around a coffee machine with deadened eyes. Spotting no obvious injuries, Wally walked right past them—ignoring the way Connor had called out for him.

The warning went unheard as he shoved through the only door with the light on.

"What the hell—" The sentence fell flat, green eyes blown wide with shock.

He wasn't quite sure what he expected to find, but what he saw definitely wasn't on the list of possibilities.

* * *

Dick looked like he'd been blown to hell. His normally sleek hair was greasy with layers of soot and dried blood. Bandages encased most of his upper body, his right arm limp in a sling, and a smattering of burns and bruises across almost every inch of exposed skin. But the most bone chilling injury of all wasn't even one of physical nature. Ripped off partially by the force of the blast, it wasn't Nightwing lying still in the bed before him, it was Dick Grayson.

"Dick." The name came strangled, choked with emotion long since reserved for Artemis. Carefully Wally danced around the wires and IV drips, edging closer to what remained of his friend. His best friend. Reaching out he gently brushed back a stray piece of hair, recoiling sharply when twilight blue eyes snapped open –wild with panic and exhaustion. Dick whimpered flinching away from Wally's touch like a wounded animal.

The speedster's heart sank. What had he done?

* * *

AN: Who doesn't love a hurt Dickie-bird? On a side note (I'm NOT promising anything) if I have the time and inspiration I'd love to take a few requests about the indefinite amount of times Dickie bird has brushed death, experienced it, and or any form of extreme illness/injury. I don't mind slash, but I won't write smut. Female characters in any form of detail are also a no. If I don't take on your idea please don't hate me for it. I have a life, I am subject to writers block, and in all honesty I just might not like it. Feel free to tack on requests to reviews or PM them to me.

Love always, Hale.


End file.
